Page 99 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I wake up the next morning, my head groggy from a restless night filled with unsettling dreams. As I stretch and yawn, the events of yesterday come flooding back. Killian’s confession, the weight of my grief, the determination to uncover the truth about my father’s work.

I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the door, already anticipating what—or rather who—I’ll find on the other side. Sure enough, as I crack it open, there’s Atlas, slumped against the wall.

It’s become an annoying part of my morning routine, this silent guard duty of his. But this morning, something’s different. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even.

He’s asleep. Fully asleep.

I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to really look at him. In sleep, the hard lines of his face soften, and I’m struck by how young he looks. How peaceful. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, angry Atlas I’ve grown used to seeing lately.

A familiar ache blooms in my chest as I study his face.

I miss him. Not the Atlas who’s here now, keeping watch over me with steely determination, but the Atlas I used to know.

The one who would flash me that occasional, secret grin that made my heart skip a beat.

The one whose eyes would roam over my body—unashamed and unreserved—anytime he saw me.

I miss the quiet easiness we used to have back when we both thought we could trust each other. Now, there’s only this bitter tension between us, a wall of anger and unspoken words that I don’t see a way around.

And while there may, in fact, not be a way around the hard, hurt feelings we share, I can spot a clear path around the man himself.

Not that I even care so much about getting away from him, if I’m being honest. I just don’t like him guarding me. Simple as that.

And fuck him for thinking he can.

I tiptoe forward, carefully stepping over his outstretched legs. Just as I think I’m in the clear, his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist.

“Shit,” I hiss, stumbling and barely catching myself against the wall.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is rough with sleep, but his grip is firm.

I grit my teeth as I slowly turn to face him, just barely censoring the half-dozen angry replies that are instantly on the tip of my tongue.

“I was hoping to avoid this little dance today,” I grind out instead, because it just so happens to be the truth.

Atlas pushes himself to his feet, his eyes narrowing. “You know I can’t let you wander off alone.”

“Right, because I’m such a danger to myself,” I snap, yanking my arm free. “Or is it because I’m a danger to you?”

His jaw tightens, and I have to suppress a small smile. I can’t be expected to clamp down on every sharp remark, can I?

“Where are you headed?”

I cross my arms, meeting his gaze. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to look into my father’s work. I don’t think he would have hidden something like this from me, but I have to know for sure.”

He gives me a hard look, no doubt frustrated that I won’t simply sit quietly in my room for days on end while he’s on guard duty. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

I roll my eyes, unsurprised. “Of course you are. God forbid I take a single step without my watchdog.”

I can tell he’s biting back his own sharp reply, and I wait a beat to hear it, just in case. I didn’t come out here looking for a fight, but I’m more than happy to have one.

At least I could blow off a little fucking steam that way.

Instead, he gestures for me to lead the way, his face settling into that mask of cold indifference I’ve grown to hate.

There’s no sign of Killian or Nico downstairs, but it’s still pretty early.

Good. The last thing I want to do right now is explain myself to them too.

“Where to first?” Atlas asks once we’ve made it to our bikes in the garage.

I hesitate, running through the mental list I’ve been compiling since last night. “There’s a diner downtown where my dad used to meet with some buddies every once in a while. We can start there.”

As we drive, my mind races with possibilities. What if my father really was involved in something fucked up? What if I find out he wasn’t the man I thought he was?

I try to push the thoughts away, focusing on the steady growl of our engines, but the anxiety creeps back in as we get closer to the greasy old hangout downtown. I just can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for what we might find.

My frustration is almost boiling over as we leave yet another dead fucking end. We’ve been at this for hours, visiting every haunt and hole-in-the-wall place my dad frequented, questioning old friends and acquaintances. Nothing. Not even a whisper of anything out of the ordinary.

The sun beats down mercilessly as we walk back to our bikes. I can feel sweat trickling down my back, my mood souring with each step. This wild goose chase is getting us nowhere.

I catch Atlas watching me out of the corner of my eye. “What?” I snap, not in the mood for his scrutiny.

He raises an eyebrow. “You tell me. You’re the one scowling at the ground.”

Before I can even think to stop myself, words start tumbling out. “It’s just… I don’t know. This whole thing is messing with my head. I keep thinking about my dad, wondering if he really had some big secret he never told me about.”

I run a hand through my hair, frustration evident in every movement.

“We were close, you know? I always thought we told each other everything. The idea that he might’ve been involved in something like this and kept it from me…

it hurts. And then it makes me wonder what else I don’t know, or whether I can trust anyone at all. ”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I shouldn’t be sharing this with Atlas, of all people. He’s not my friend anymore. He’s not my lover. He’s not my anything .

But when I look up, ready to brush off my moment of weakness, I’m caught off guard by the expression on his face. For a brief second, I see a flicker of the old Atlas—the one who used to listen to my problems, who cared.

Then, just as quickly, the mask slips back into place. He clears his throat, looking away. “Sometimes parents hide things from you to protect you.”

I glance over and flash him a wry smile. “You didn’t kill your mom when you were little too, did you?”

His head snaps towards me, eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, he’s caught off guard, and I can see the wheels turning in his head.

“Killian told you about that?” he asks, his voice low and controlled.

I nod, watching his reaction carefully. It’s not often I see Atlas thrown off balance, and I can’t help but feel a small thrill of satisfaction.

He lets out a slow breath. “He doesn’t tell many people about that.”

Slowly, belatedly, the implication hits me. Killian told me. Why? What made me different from the others?

Atlas’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “No, I didn’t kill either of my parents.”

A memory surfaces of a time when Atlas mentioned his father’s death. “But someone did kill your dad, right?”

The change is instant. His face closes off, his jaw clenching. He doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead, his whole body radiating tension.

I know I should drop it, but curiosity is eating me up inside. There’s clearly a story there, one that he doesn’t want to share.

There isn’t time to ask anything else before we’re off to the last place on my list—a dingy dive bar where my dad used to drink. Atlas stands a few feet away, pretending to be interested in the ancient jukebox while keeping an eye on me.

The bartender, an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes, ambles over. “What can I get ya?”

“Information, actually,” I say, sliding a photo of my dad across the bar. “Did you know this man?”

He squints at the picture, recognition dawning on his face. “Yeah, I suppose I did. Ain’t seen him in a while though. You his kid?”

I nod. “He’s… dead.” A lump forms in my throat as I struggle to get the words out.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like that can be right, like he really is gone forever.

“I’m trying to piece together some things about his past, and I know he used to spend some time here.

Do you happen to remember who he used to drink with? Anything you could tell me would help.”

The bartender furrows his brow, absently wiping a glass. “Let’s see… he started coming here, oh, must be twenty years ago now. Always had a regular crowd he’d sit with.”

He sets the glass down, ticking off names on his fingers. “There was Big Mike. Built like a linebacker, that one. Then there was Sammy ‘Two-Fingers.’ Don’t ask how he got that name. A guy everyone called ‘The Professor’, but I don’t think he ever taught a day in his life.”

I lean in, hanging on every word. “Anyone else?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, warming to the topic. “There was a real quiet fella, went by Hawk. And a woman. Red, we called her. Fiery temper to match her hair.”

I quickly jot down the names in my phone, skimming them over again to try to remember whether I’ve ever heard my father mention any of them.

I’m drawing a blank so far, but it’s hard to think clearly when I’m still standing in front of this stranger—friendly as he is—and I know Atlas is probably eavesdropping on every word.

“Thanks, this is really helpful,” I say, looking up from my phone. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything odd or out of the ordinary?”

The bartender’s expression softens, a hint of sympathy creeping into his eyes. “Listen, kid, I’m real sorry about your old man. He was a good guy, always had a kind word for everyone.”

I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “You know, I remember when he used to mention you sometimes. How he had the best little girl in the world. And now look at you.” His eyes roam over me, lingering a bit too long. “All grown up into quite the beautiful young woman.”